The Duchess

Psalm for an App

(Hi, I'm Melissa and I'm addicted to iPhone Scrabble.)

Rules race west and east,
north and south, framing panes
of white, green and red,
light blue and orange
(jackpot!).

One lone finger scrambles
the letters, dragging them to
the colors to stockpile
the numbers before you can
(bingo!).

If I tap the teacher and see
his upended headstone
teeth, his square face swallowed
by a psychotic grin, I’m a rock star
(word star!).

But if my best guess is met
with a self-righteous smirk,
I brace myself for the crush
of the coulda,
shoulda,
woulda
(damn!).

Canis Interruptus

A napping cat, cat-napped,
wrenched roughly from its sunny
back-porch slumber to sate the mid-day
munchies of a sandy, panting alpha male.
At my feet, on the end of a drooping
leash, lies my own softly snoring
four-legged friend and I wonder

how the wild and the tame
met in this chessboard of cool
white condos and golf-course greens.
Did he catch her scent on the breeze
as he patrolled the fourteenth hole?
Or did he wait, sheltered

in that shady stand of silent pines
guarding kitty’s sleepy haven?
Was he stealthy and smooth
as he crept in closer? Or did he launch
himself with a howl, a lawn dart
with an appetite? Lucky kitty

never woke from her furry,
toy-chasing, string-swatting,
Sunday dreams. She never knew
what bit her.

Symphony in F You

A sestina.

A humid puff of storm tunes the August air
that droops, limp and sluggish, at my feet,
tapping my bare arms with its first drops.
A green and yellow beast chews the grass,
bearing on its metal back a bony man.
They lurch across the lawn with a grumble.

I watch until I hear the throaty grumble
of a pot-bellied cloud crowding the air.
I turn my back on the lawn-mowing man,
and escape upstairs to dry my feet
and watch the wind tangle the grass
through a window pimpled with fat rain drops.

The stuttering breeze crescendos and drops,
backing a duet of shouts and grumbles.
Two figures feuding in the glossy grass,
arms chopping erratically at the air,
like conductors too long on their feet.
The bony fist flails at a ham-colored man.

“Yer outta yer mind!” rails the bony man
who flips a finger skyward, strewing drops.
Hammy shifts and shuffles weary feet
and answers Bony with a sullen grumble.
Their glum concerto sags in the soggy air
and slips earthward, lost in the grass.

Bony spits tobacco in the grass
and jabs his finger at the pink-faced man
who shakes his head with a stubborn air.
A shower of sharp staccato drops
chase the thunder’s bass-drum grumble,
and gather, babbling, around their feet.

The palm trees tremble from tops to feet,
shedding fronds like feathers in the grass.
The men resign their squabble with a grumble,
reluctant still to be the bigger man.
They duck toward shelter, dodging drops
as thunder cannonades the hushing air.

A final, fading grumble clears the air
and wrings some trailing drops into the grass.
A man laughs somewhere beneath my feet.

Four-Figure Tax Breaks for Students and Disabled Veterans

It's no surprise the government tends to hang on to more of our money than we're generally comfortable with, but every once in a while a circumstance comes along that allows us to get a little back. Unfortunately - and again, unsurprisingly - these breaks are not widely publicized and hence not taken advantage of as often as they should be. This is my small attempt to stick it to the man.

There are substantial tax breaks available for 1st- or 2nd-year college students (including part time) and Veterans of the US Armed Forces who have been medically discharged from service. Both exemptions can make a significant difference (from $1500 to $7500 for me personally) in your Federal Tax refund. Not to sound like I'm shilling for Intuit, but I've always used Turbo Tax Free to file and find it very easy to itemize deductions to maximize my return.

And in case you get audited and get your ass handed to you for claiming money to which you're not actually entitled, here's my disclaimer: this is just what I've learned and used; check with an experienced tax preparer before filing.

Students - The Hope Credit
If you meet the following criteria, you may be eligible for a $1600 tax credit ($3600 for Midwestern disaster areas):

1) You must be enrolled in one of the first two years of post secondary education;
2) You must be enrolled in a program that leads to a degree, certificate, or other recognized educational credential;
3) You must be taking at least half of the normal full time work load for your course of study for at least one academic period beginning during the calendar year;
4) You must not have a felony conviction for possessing or distributing a controlled substance.

SEE: this article for complete details.

Disabled Veterans - Recoup Tax on Severance
If you were medically separated from the Armed Services this year and were paid a lump-sum severance, you may be eligible to recoup the taxes paid on that amount. The amount exempt from taxation will be specified in the "We Have Withheld Benefits" section of your claim determination letter from the Dept. of Veterans Affairs.

If you meet either of the following criteria;

1) You received a "combat-related injury" designation from the Physical Evaluation Board (see AFI 36-3212, 3.27. Determinations for Tax Benefits)
2) You received a retroactive disability determination from the VA for the same condition for which you were discharged (see IRS Pub 17, 2008, page 53)

...visit the US Vet Info website and read this information paper from the Presidio of Monterey Staff Judge Advocate for more information on how to claim your refund. If you received the severance and your VA Compensation claim determination in the same year, you should be able to request a corrected W-2 from the finance office/comptroller on your local military installation.

NOTE: Monthly VA Disability Compensation benefits are NOT taxable.

If you know anyone to whom these conditions may apply, please forward the information. Uncle Sam shouldn't get to keep their money.

Bonne chance!
Melissa

References:

• WebTax Hope Credit info page


• IRS Pub.970, Tax Benefits for Education p.9, 'Students in Midwestern Disaster Areas'


• Hope and Lifetime Learning Credits, 2008 from irs.gov


• AFI 36-3212, para 3.27. Determinations for Tax Benefits


• IRS Pub 17, 2008, page 53


• How to Recoup Taxes Paid on Disability Severance pay From the Armed Forces from the US Vet Info website


• IRS Pub 525, Taxable & Non-Taxable Income, p. 17

My Reader's Digest "I Survived" Experience

Ed. Note: In March I went with a friend to New Zealand for a two-week trip exploring South Island. This little misadventure happened on our first day out. Images are copyright by the author unless otherwise specified. More images of the trip can be seen here.

Nothing against Kiwis – they are some of the friendliest people I’ve ever met – but I’m beginning to think they’re either a bunch of practical jokers or New Zealand is the Understatement Capital of the World.

After waking to a stunning view of majestic Mount Cook from our hotel room, Ned and I were anxious to get out on the trails and finally realize our 6-month plan to test our mettle on the rugged terrain down under. After a quick breakfast of smoked salmon and bagels at the local café, we stopped at the visitor’s center to get some trail suggestions and a weather update. The bored blonde at the counter could have been a robot for all the personality she put into the weather report and what turned out to be a grossly understated account of the trail we chose – Kea Trail to the Mueller Hut situated almost 6000 feet up the slopes of Mount Olivier. After paying our $70 in hut fees and promising to check in the next day, we left for the trail with high spirits, heavy backpacks, and the optimism only non-clairvoyants enjoy.

We got on the trail around 12:45 and snapped a few shots of each other against the breathtaking backdrop of the mountain range we were about to scale. Fifteen minutes into the hike, I was horrified to discover my heart pounding, lungs burning and hips aching with the effort of hauling the 35 pounds of camping gear strapped to my body over knee-high steps of rock and dirt. Ned let me take the lead so I could set the pace, which slowed to a mere crawl compared to the brisk walk I was looking forward to. Not more than 45 minutes into the trek, we had to stop so I could rest my burning muscles and get a few gulps of water. We took the opportunity to snap a few pictures of the now-visible Mueller Glacier and the odd grey lake at its terminus. I started looking forward to the end of the trail as the ache in my lungs and legs began to outweigh the thrill of the ascent.

As the hours wore on, the trail became steeper, rockier, and so narrow I was having trouble getting both feet on the path at the same time. I began to be a little worried as my pack shifted with each step, throwing off my balance and causing me to teeter precariously on my now-aching feet. My pride was wounded with each muscle twinge, and I was ashamed at having to so obviously struggle along while other people breezed by us in both directions. Admittedly most of them were carrying little or nothing and had only hiked as far as the rest point at Sealy Tarns, a pair of mountain pools a little over halfway to the peak. As we neared the Tarns, people began to enquire about our ultimate destination, and we were discouraged by the number of eyebrow raises and sideways good-luck wishes we got in response to our aspirations of reaching Mueller Hut. Most of them advised us that the trail was “a bit rougher and not so clearly marked” once past the Tarns. As I crawled over a particularly steep rock on my hands and knees, one man even stopped us to point out that I was carrying too heavy a load. Ned agreed and decided to leave me to rest at the tarns while he made the final 1.5 hour ascent to the hut. He said he’d come back and carry my pack so I could make the steepest part of the ascent unencumbered. I noted the time and warned him that if he wasn’t back in three hours, I was going to start down and look for help. He laughed and assured me he’d return well before that, then left.

I watched him ascend the steep trail above me for a minute, then found a rock by one of the pools and sat down with a big sigh, unbuckling my pack and dropping it gratefully on the ground beside me. I grinned at the sight of Mr. Nova T. Lion – the little spark mascot with whom I’d been entrusted – sticking his furry head out of a pocket. I’d forgotten he was back there and had to pick a few bits of foliage out of his face before tucking him safely back into his little carry on. I sipped at my last bottle of water as I studied the giant expanse of the valleys between Mounts Olivier, Sefton, and Cook. I watched the clouds cast an enormous shadow over the village tucked into the base of the mountain and snapped a few pictures of a rainbow in the distance. As the minutes ticked away, I heard thunder rumbling along the glaciers and shivered as the sun disappeared behind an angry grey cloud bank. I got out my poncho and prepared for a downpour, praying fervently it wouldn’t be too cold or too windy. At almost 4000 feet above sea level, I was worried about being blown off the ledge that cradled the little pools now reflecting the heavy clouds rolling in. As the hour of Ned’s expected return drew near, I watched the ridge above me doggedly, waiting for him to appear. It was almost fifteen minutes past the three-hour mark when I finally saw a tiny figure crest the ridge and heard him whistle. I waved and started packing up my camera and readjusting my pack. It was almost a full half hour later when he turned onto the path to the tarns. He looked worn out and was breathing hard as he gulped the last of our water. He looked almost grim as he prepared me for the path ahead.

He said he hadn’t made it all the way to the end, but had stopped to drop his pack on a flat ridge where he’d met some descending travelers who gave him water and assured him he was only an easy walk to the hut from that point. He admitted the path before us was rough terrain and that halfway up he’d almost turned around but didn’t want to disappoint me by cutting short our adventure. Now refreshed, I was eager to get going. Ned hauled my pack onto his back, transferring both camera bags to my shoulders and clipping them out of my way with a carabiner. We left the tarns behind us and headed up the trail.

The track to Mueller Hut ascended steeply above us, a series of switchbacks marked by orange triangles and very little else. I became increasingly nervous as the trail became less trail and more rock, with hairpin curves so tight we had to edge around them sideways. I held my breath as I prodded my shaky legs along an 8-inch-wide rock ledge that jutted out over a sheer drop off. I tried not to look down, but found it hard to look elsewhere as solid footing became less and less apparent. After forty minutes of scrambling over rocks, sometimes on hands and knees, I was relieved to see the top of the ridge just ahead. I clambered over the top and felt my heart drop and my throat tighten with tears of disappointment as I was met by the sight of yet another steep, green slope laced with veins of rock and mud that were the only evidence of the track now, aside from the orange-tipped markers every 200 yards. We rested a moment on a convenient tussock before pushing upward, picking our way through the high grass, slippery mud and jagged rocks, all the time shooing away flocks of curious parrot-like keas. I egged myself on under my breath, fighting desperately to keep my focus on my footing and off the wide expanse of nothingness dropping steeply away behind me.

The trail seemed endless, and I became increasingly panicky as the ascent became ever steeper and the footing more precarious. My hopes were painfully dashed as we crested each hill and ridge to find more hills, more rocks and steeper inclines. It wasn’t long before I was exhausted by the constant disappointment of each false peak. We stopped for a moment before a field of giant boulders piled against each other, creating deep crevasses between their jagged edges. My balance even without a pack was so poor I could barely stand on one foot, let alone leap across the bottomless gaps to the next boulder. I stood on a flat rock and looked around as my resolve suddenly dissipated into the chilly air. I felt my eyes well as I contemplated the unwelcoming landscape stretching before me.

“I can’t do it.”

Ned stopped and turned around, holding out his hand. “Come on. Just put your foot there and grab my hand.” He pointed to the 6-inch wide rock about 2 feet away from me, urging me to jump. I shook my head miserably, feeling every minute of last seven exhausting hours of climbing.

“I can’t. I can’t do it. It’s too far and my legs are shaking.”

Ned nodded and suggested we take a rest. I sat down and fought back angry, frightened tears, turning my face away from him. I denied it when he asked if I was tearing up, then to my horror, felt a terrified sob escape my throat into the gathering dusk. I covered my face with my hands as another tired sob escaped. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This is stupid. I don’t know why I’m so upset.”

Ned looked on in helpless sympathy. “Because you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and this is some of the toughest terrain I’ve ever seen. Believe me when I tell you you’re doing exceptionally well, especially for a beginner. I had no idea it would be this hard.”

I looked at him doubtfully.

He continued, “I’m not kidding you. I’ve hiked the White Mountains, the North Georgia Mountains and the South Rim Trail at Big Bend, and this is the hardest trail I’ve ever been on. If I’d known it was like this, I’d have never brought you up here.”

I sniffed and mumbled, “Are we almost there?”

He assured me that after the boulders, we had just a short gravel scree to scramble up before we reached the ridge where he’d left his pack, and then an easy 20-minute walk to the hut from there.

I took a deep breath. “Well, we’d better go if we’re gonna get there before dark.”

Ned patted my arm reassuringly and rebuckled my pack onto his back before leading me across the rest of the boulders to a steep footpath layered with loose gravel. I chose my footsteps carefully, gasping each time the ground gave way beneath my boots , sending a cataract of tiny stones bouncing down the trail below me. Ned encouraged me to stay balanced over my feet as best I could and just trust my boots to do the work. When the top of the ridge came into view, I gathered the last of my resolve and charged ahead, muttering under my breath, “It’s just a walk. It’s just a hike along any old path, it’s not that hard.” I pulled myself over the top on my hands and knees and nearly collapsed onto a flat, rocky ridge about fifteen yards wide. Ned led me to where his pack was hidden and we sat down to drink the last sips of water and eat a handful of trail mix. My eyes began to well again, this time with tears of relief as I imagined the hut just around the other side of the rocky peak we now leaned against. Ned nodded toward the murky white mist beyond and below us. “That was a beautiful view a few hours ago.”

I nodded. “Then maybe we’d better get going. It’ll be dark before long.”

As Ned picked up his pack, I shouldered mine again, wincing as the straps dug into my shoulders and the weight settled on my sore hip muscles and tired feet. We set off down a slight descent, now surrounded entirely by piles of boulders, all tumbled around us like the carnage of an ancient rock slide. We picked our way through the jagged stones, pushing our pace in hopes of seeing the hut just over the next peak. We crested the first pile of rocks and instead of the hut, we saw only more rocks on every side of us. We pushed on, counting the passing minutes and peering hard into the mist for signs of the next marker or cairn. My spirits wilted further as we crested ridge after ridge, each time greeted by the sight of impossible rock formations and, if we were lucky, a dim flash of orange topping the next trail marker. Full darkness came on quickly now, and as the markers became fewer and further apart, I began to panic. Between the dark and the fog, even our powerful LED flashlights could only pierce about ten feet into the thick soup. Ned instructed me to sit at the last marker we’d found and shine my flashlight after him as he searched for the next one. Whenever he found a marker, I moved toward the sound of his voice and stayed there while he struck out to find another. We continued like this, keeping track of one another by flashlight and voice contact until the visibility was less than a yard and I was shivering in the damp mist. Ned went to look for one last marker, this time striking out to my right. I waited, staring hard into the darkness as his light bobbed away from me, sometimes to the right, now to the left. When his light climbed above me and disappeared, I called out to him nervously.

“Ned?”

No answer, so I shouted louder.

“Ned, can you still hear me?”

My heart climbed into my throat as my shouts were met with more silence. We both knew from the guidebook that once past the hut, the trail extended out onto a steep ridge where only experts with mountain-climbing gear could go. Knowing we could easily have passed the hut in the dark, I listened hard, staring at the spot where his light disappeared. I wondered what the hell I was going to do if he didn’t come back. I screamed at the top of my lungs, “Ned! Where the fuck are you?”

I nearly collapsed with relief when a tiny pinpoint of white light appeared to my right and I heard him shout, “Over here! I’m coming back.”

It took him almost ten minutes to pick his way back to me, where he slumped down onto an adjoining boulder. “There are two more markers over there, but then they just disappear. No cairns either.” He grumbled in frustration, “We have to be close, I just know it!”

My teeth now chattering uncontrollably, I asked quietly, “Can we quit now?”

He nodded and sighed, “Yeah, we’re done. Let’s make camp.”

We found a tiny enclosure surrounded on two sides by a low stone wall and dropped our packs yet again. We unrolled our sleeping bags, separating them from the rocky ground with thin inflatable pads. I kicked off my boots, squirmed into my narrow bag and lay quietly as Ned set out some open Ziploc bags in hopes of catching condensation. We had been completely out of water since we topped the ridge three hours before and were both thirsty. I drifted off, slipping into a dream where my feet kept sliding out from under me, pitching me over the edge into a tumbling freefall to nothingness. I jerked awake violently and felt my stomach lurch. I vowed not to drift off again, and instead lay there feeling the droplets of mist gather weight and splash onto my face.

I didn’t realize I’d drifted off again until I opened my eyes. I was disoriented by the view – instead of thick grey mist, I was greeted by an inky sky impossibly crowded with bright, glittering stars so close I felt I could pull one down. I gaped in awe until I drifted off again, waking again to wet fog, drifting off again and finally waking to a lightening sky. Still tied snugly into my sleeping bad I gasped, waking Ned.

The fog had lifted, revealing snow-capped peaks all around us, lit pink by the rising sun. I shivered as I realized we were level with most of them, taking comfort now in the huge boulders separating us from the edge of our own 6000-foot-high peak. In the morning light I could see clearly four trail markers around us, and my hopes of finding the hut and some warmth rose. Ned kicked free of his wet sleeping bag and stood up, getting ready to go in search of the elusive shelter once again. As he stretched and looked around he exclaimed, “Oh shit.”

I whipped my head around. “What? What’s the matter?”

He shook his head and pointed, “See that? There’s the hut.”

I struggled out of my bag and stood, looking in the direction he was pointing. There it was, not 200 yards away to our left over yet another rocky ridge. We packed up our bags and mats quickly, still shivering in the damp air, and started off in toward our destination. We lost sight of the bright red building several times as the deceptively short walk stretched into yet another 25-minute hike over rocky crevasses and jagged boulders.

Later that day after we reached the ground, I sat down on the back bumper of our rented SUV and sighed deeply, pulling off my parka in the now-warm air. I looked up at the mountain we’d just left, and marveled again at how high and steep it was, not quite able to wrap my brain around what just happened.

After shedding our extra layers, we drove back to the visitor’s center to check in and have the clerk radio Jan to let her know we’d reached the bottom safely. Out of curiosity, Ned glanced over the Mueller Hut trail guide on the counter as he was waiting for the bored blonde clerk to notice him. It said: “Mueller Hut trail is an energetic four-hour walk from the bottom of Kea Point Track, past the scenic Sealy Tarns. Parts of the route are quite rocky.”

Understated, indeed.

The Uniform Doesn't Make the Man...or Woman

Received in email today, accompanied by a picture of an American flag (my answer follows):

Dear Fellow Americans and Military Veterans,

As a supporter of veterans' issues, you surely know, America today faces threats like none ever faced in previous generations. We are in the midst of a war that could take several more years to complete honorably. Russia has grown dangerously aggressive, recently invading a key U.S. ally. Iran and North Korea both pose serious threats to world peace. The Middle East remains in perilous turmoil.

Article 2 of the Constitution states that, among other duties, the President of the United States "shall be Commander-in-Chief of the Army and Navy of the United States, and of the Militia of the several States, when called into the actual Service of the United States."

In our nation's history, very infrequently (mostly in non-turbulent times of peace) have we had a Commander-in-Chief who did not have some military exposure. It is difficult to envision a Commander-in-Chief heading our Armed Forces who has never experienced military service. Our Commander-in-Chief absolutely should have this essential experience, the training it provides, and the capacity for leadership it bestows. Too much is at stake.

I joined the U.S. Navy in 1942 during World War II as a Seaman 2nd class and went on to become a Naval Aviator, flying fighter aircraft and dive bombers. So you may understand when I say that military experience has influenced me profoundly throughout my adult life. I believe it was crucial for me, and will be crucial for our next President.

I have written this letter and have paid personally to send this message to a select list of people who are influential in their communities. I would appreciate any thoughts or ideas, pro or con, on this matter from each of you in this important group. Do you believe that a Commander-in-Chief who has never been in the service should be making decisions about sending our young men into combat?

I would like to pursue this matter further, contacting as many as ten million veterans. Is there anything more you would suggest that we say to these veterans about the importance of military service? If you agree, would you help get this message out to your friends and family? I have made arrangements to receive your comments at jikislak@gmail.com.

I am eager to hear from you with any thoughts or ideas about this important issue. In addition, to help defray the cost of reaching ten million more veterans, if you wish to make a voluntary contribution, please click here. In any event, I'm anxious to hear your comments on whether, and how, I should proceed with this project. Please e-mail me at jikislak@gmail.com.

Fraternally yours,

Jay I. Kislak, Lt. (jg), USNR Ret

Dear Retired Lieutenant Commander Kislak,

What an incendiary, erroneous, misleading load of baloney! According to your 'logic' (and I use that term loosely), because I'm a veteran it is my responsibility – nay, my patriotic duty to elect the guy with a dusty uniform in the back of his closet, regardless of his qualifications. Were you trying to sell this as an intelligent, logical argument or was I just supposed to weep a bit at the flag cartoon and forward it to fifteen friends?

Frankly I'm insulted at your assumption that because I'm former military I've allowed blind, fanatical patriotism replace my capacity to reason out my own choice on Election Day. The holes in the foundation of your argument are big enough to fly a C-130 through. Let's examine!

Let's just say for argument's sake that John McCain is an over-the-hill, erratic sycophant working hand-in-hand with a female whack-job who wants to set feminism (among other things) back a couple dozen decades. And let's pretend (again, strictly for argument's sake) that Barack Obama is a socially-responsible, compassionate (okay, bleeding-heart liberal), intelligent, educated guy who was smart enough to finance and run his own life all by himself, thankyouverymuch. By some heroic leap of logic, you're telling me that eight weeks of boot camp, five years of prison and however many years of being told how exactly to wipe his ass and wash his feet makes McCain a better candidate for President than Obama?

That might wash with the Fox-fed conservatives who'd support an alleged thief if he turned out to be a soldier, but I've served in the military's enlisted corps and I can tell you that particular argument doesn't hold spit. First, being military doesn't automatically make you honorable, or brave, or smart. I could point you to several dozen examples in both the officer and enlisted ranks who prove that point quite neatly. Even an honorable discharge doesn't mean you're the moral police. I've watched some of the military's finest steal, toke, screw, puff, guzzle, puke, lie and cheat themselves silly, and that's just one Saturday night at the local barracks.

Second, serving in the military doesn't make you a patriot. Those who join solely because they want to serve and protect their country are a minority. Take away the guaranteed paycheck, enlistment bonuses, 2.5 days+ holidays off every month, medical care, free education and tax-free allowances for clothing, food, and housing but keep the hazardous working conditions, long duty days, lack of personal space and months on end in a combat zone, and our military might would be quickly and significantly reduced. We're all patriots until we can't pay the bills.

Third, serving in the military doesn't make you compassionate to the plight of other soldiers, sailors, Airmen or Marines. An officer’s uniform doesn’t produce capable leadership any more than a chef’s hat produces a five-star meal. I have fallen victim to so much lousy, incompetent, vindictive 'leadership' during my enlistments that at the end I was relieved to be relieved of duty. From the new NCO to the seasoned four-star there are almost no real, working safeguards in place to ensure that a leadership position is filled by a qualified leader. If there were, General Moseley would never have been asked to step down because he never would have gotten that far in the first place.

Finally, what kind of Mickey Mouse logic is this 'only the military can lead' anyway? Not only is it insulting to the hundreds of non-military leaders who are doing a pretty damn decent job, it's also an intellectually insulting error in reason. Postulating that one leader is better qualified solely on the basis of his military service is like saying since men can't have babies they can't change a diaper (you wish, guys). There is a great deal more to running a country than micromanaging the men you hired to run the country's defenses (anyone heard of Secretary Gates? Admiral McMullen? General Petraeus?) and if the American public doesn't quickly recognize that, we're going to be sorry sooner than later.

I am not belittling John McCain's service, nor his honor evidenced while a Prisoner of War. I am not suggesting that McCain is a lousy leader or that Obama is a great one. I don't know that for sure because there's a lot more to examine in choosing a President than their obvious military service or lack thereof. What I am saying is that it is a mistake to assume military service – even that which is characterized by courage and honor – makes a man qualified to run a country. We are at war now, but we will not be so forever.

My only patriotic duty, Mr. Kislak, is to elect a man who is capable of leading us in more than the wars we wage.

With all the respect due your position,

Melissa G., former SSgt, United States Air Force

Food for Thought

From the movie Spanglish, which always makes me cry:

American women, I believe actually feel the same as Hispanic women about weight; a desire for the comfort of fullness. And when that desire is suppressed for style and deprivation allowed to rule - dieting, exercising - American women become afraid of everything associated with being curvaceous such as wantonness, lustfulness, sex, food, motherhood - all that is best in life.

The Only Kind of Shopping I Don't Love

I hate grocery shopping. I rank this chore somewhere between picking slimy wilted lettuce off the bottom of the crisper drawer and cleaning toilets boys have peed on. No matter how prepared I try to be with my sorted-by-aisle, alphabetized, pre-printed grocery list, just getting there pisses me off almost as much as much as a fight with my mother. You could put me in an orange vest and turn me loose in the freezing tundra with nothing more than a shotgun and my will to live, and although I may starve to death before killing any of Walt Disney's gentle woodland creatures, I'll at least go calmly. But stick me in an aisle full of soccer moms and screaming toddlers jockeying for the last loaf of Wonder Bread and you may as well poke me in the eye with a sharp stick. Imagine if you will, someone too picky, too cranky, too anal-retentive and far too easily provoked into an angry fit of impromptu bumper carts for this to be anything other than an exercise in utter frustration. Are you imagining that? Good. Now add PMS.

I guess it was inevitable that payday would one day coincide with Aunt Flo's short-fused precursor, but if I'd had any food in the house at all – not counting a can of sauerkraut and some frozen leftovers – I probably would have put it off at least another day. It would have been the least I could do, if only to spare the natives. But sadly enough, one cannot live on sauerkraut and vegetable lo-mein alone.

I at least have the decency to feel sorry for those who crossed my path in the local H.E.B. this afternoon. When confronted with clogged aisles and the 'excuse-your-overloaded-cart' looks from customers, I actually caught myself mumbling under my breath, "Oh, I'm sorry -- was it my turn to give a shit about your shopping experience?" and, "See this face? This is what my face looks like when I don't give a rat's ass." Oh, yes, I was a barrel of giggles and sunshine, all wrapped up in candy-coated teddy bears. And if you think that's bad, you should have seen me when I realized I'd forgotten my categorized-by-aisle alphabetized shopping list on the kitchen counter. Good thing there's little else taking up space in my short-term memory bank.

So I've pretty much bitched my way through this entire day, from 7 AM PT, all the way through the part where I cut off all the circulation in 8 of 10 fingers because I'm too lazy to make more than two trips up the stairs with an inexplicable $145-worth of groceries.

Once I got everything put away, however, and had finished logging my hasty dinner of the aforementioned leftovers into my Weight Watchers points tracker, I decided to spend my last two points of the day on exactly seven ounces of overpriced Rainier cherries I'd bought on impulse. And this, right here, is where the whole day suddenly turned around. When I opened that bag of cherries, I was greeted by the sight of two pounds of bloody-red, juicy, unblemished sunshine so fat and heavy with sweetness, I think I heard angels sing. It was almost obscene how picture-perfect they were, without a single reject. I smiled – nay, giggled when I plucked out a still-joined-by-the-stem pair so perfect and shiny they look like clip art.

I know I don't deserve this bowl of deep, dark cherry perfection after the way I've rampaged through this day. I should feel guilty, or at least mildly penitent about the number of swear words I've used, the combinations in which I've used them and the more-or-less innocent people I've used them at. I could probably even manage to repair my damaged karma if I at least offered to bring some to the office tomorrow to share.

But I don't feel guilty. And I probably won't share. And maybe it's just the PMS talking, but I'm really okay with that.

And All I Got Was This Fortune Cookie

I was on my second crossword puzzle of the evening when my eyes wandered up to the ‘Celebrity Birthdays’ section of the Abilene Reporter-News. The first entry to catch my eye was ‘Mary-Kate Olsen, actress, 20’ and the corresponding entry ‘Ashley Olsen, actress, 20’ immediately above it. But right there on top of the Twiggy Twins was a third entry; ‘Kat Denning, actress, 20’.

Curious as to whether this discovery could unearth a long-lost Olsen triplet, I clicked over to the International Movie Database and checked out her photos. While she can certainly pull off the gamine, doe-eyed allure of the famously underfed, her refreshingly normal head-to-body ratio would immediately nullify any claims of kinship to the skeletal starlets. I scanned her resume, which included several optimistically-named TV movies, a dozen guest appearances on CSI, a bit part in a Hilary Duff flick, and a supporting role in…wait -- a Bob Saget film?! Holy degrees of Kevin Bacon, Batman!

Whatever forecast for success the trio’s horoscope may have featured on the day they were born is subject to some scrutiny. Broad pronouncements of future fame and fortune are somewhat disputable -- playing backup dancer to a rabbit-toothed teen queen hardly compares to a producing a library of straight-to-VHS cuteness and the resulting bazillion-dollar paychecks. Visions of head shots and casting calls seem to have proved reliable. But predictions of a future as the offspring of an inept, foul-mouthed, Jewish comedian? Now that’s just creepy.